"I believe you are right. Excuse me--I want to speak to the long-legged Southerner. I've never seen him before." To the astonishment of the Senator, the editor pushed his way into the group who were shaking hands with the President. He paused an instant, extended his hand and felt the rugged fingers close on it with a hearty grip. Before he realized it he was saying something astounding--something the farthest possible removed from his thoughts on entering the room. "I want to thank you, sir, for that document. The heart of an unselfish patriot speaks through every word. I came here to criticise and find fault. I'm going home to stand by you through thick and thin. You've given us a glimpse inside." Both big hands were now clasping his and a mist was clouding the hazel-grey eyes. "The Senator accuses you," he went on, "of being a Southerner. He must be right. No Northern man could have seen through the clouds of passion to-day clearly enough to have written that letter. You can see things for all the people, North, South, East and West. God bless you--I'm going home to fight for you and with you----" In angry amazement Senator Winter saw most of the men he had led to this carefully planned attack walk up and pledge their loyalty to his smiling foe. He turned on his heel and left, his jaw set, his blue eyes dancing with fury. Old Edward was again rubbing his hands apologetically at the door: "A body of clergymen from Chicago, sir----" "Clergymen from Chicago?" "Yes, sir." "I didn't know they ever used such things in Chicago!" He caught his knee in his big hands, leaned back and laughed heartily. The doorman looked straight ahead and managed to keep his solemn countenance under control. "All right, let them in, Edward." The reverend gentlemen solemnly filed into the executive office. They looked around in evident amazement at its bare poverty-stricken appearance. They had been shocked at the threadbare appearance of the White House grounds as they entered. This room was a greater shock--this throbbing nerve centre of the Nation. In the middle stood the long, plain table around which the storm-racked Cabinet were wont to gather. There was not a single piece of ornamental or superfluous furniture visible. It appeared almost bare. A second-hand upright desk stood by the middle window. In the northwest corner of the room there were racks with map rollers, and folios of maps on the floor and leaning against the wall. The well-dressed, prosperous-looking gentlemen gazed about in a critical way. Their spokesman was a distinguished Bishop who knew that he was distinguished and conveyed the information in every movement of his august body. "We have come, Mr. President," he solemnly began, "as God's messengers to urge on you the immediate and universal emancipation of every slave in America."